I Wish I May
by Cliodhna
Summary: -Once upon a time my life was very simple. I was no trouble to anyone and people rarely worried about me. Now my life is different.- Unable to speak, Buffy is poisoned by dark memories as she retreats ever further into her own living death. A/H.
1. Chapter 1

Once upon a time my life was very simple

Disclaimer: All characters belong to Joss Whedon. This story is loosely based on a book called Watching the Roses, by Adele Geras. The book Watching the Roses is loosely based on Sleeping Beauty. The title is from a musical called The Witches Of Eastwick.

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_I Wish I May._

Once upon a time my life was very simple. I went to school, and I came home. I was no trouble to anyone and people rarely worried about me. Now my life is different.

I spend my days alone in my room, sleeping all day and only rising when the sun has set. Then I stare outside and regard the world as it changes before my eyes.

My parents worry. Of course they do. I haven't come out of my room for three weeks. In the beginning they fought. Now there's nothing left to say, so they just drink themselves to sleep. They sleep, and they worry.

I don't worry. I can't seem to let my mind do anything but run through past memories. Times I had before.

Three weeks ago was my 18th birthday party. It should have been wonderful, a perfect day for everyone, but it was ruined, ripped and torn to shreds. Now, when someone comes into my room, I lie very still on my bed, pretending I'm not here, wondering what it would be like if I wasn't. They try and get me to speak but I wont, I can't. It's not going to change anything. The only daily visitor I have is my mother, and I am always in position on my bed for when she enters. She leaves me food, which I eat little of, hours after she has left.

My father, Hank, was a successful businessman, and in his spare time he would tend the garden. My mother, Joyce, ran an art gallery and painted whenever she could. My father would make the garden beautiful, and my mother would paint it. They don't do either now. My mind drifts through the house, and I can hear conversations from where I lie. They don't do anything they used to. This house is as closed off as I am now.

Sometimes I hear people come to the door. They are always turned away. Mostly they are my friends, Willow and Xander. When there is nothing to hear, I think of them.

We three were inseparable in the days before the party. We went to the same school, Sunnydale High, and we would spend every minute together, in the library with the librarian, Mr Giles or at the Bronze with our other friends. From what I hear of their rushed conversations with my parents, they don't do much of anything anymore. They visit every day, but never come into my room. I think they're afraid of what they might see.

I'm afraid of they'll see too. If they see me as what I've become, a shell, a silent, broken, shadow of the person I used to be, then that makes the blurry memory of what happened to me true, and brings it into sharp focus.

I can't think about it now. I couldn't think about it when it was happening.

I must think of my friends.

Before the party, on the days when I was happy and carefree, Willow, Xander and I would sit in the library with Mr Giles and listen to his stories. He had such stories to tell. Stories from his youth, which were always dangerous and exciting, and stories of his life, the people he'd met and the jobs he'd undertaken. We always said he'd lived such a rich life for a librarian. He'd tell us we'd live rich lives too, if only we told the stories properly. After hearing this, the three of us began to tell stories of our own childhoods, times before we met. Xander would tell us about his family warring over the Christmas turkey, and about his uncle Rory's eccentricities. His stories were always the funny ones. Willow would tell stories about her dreams. She dreamed every single night and remembered every detail the next day, and she would fill Xander and me in about everything. Her stories would always end with us trying to discern meaning from the mess.

Dreams have always seemed to me to be thin, inconsistent slips of imagination. An escape from a world where no-one belongs. My dreams trap me. I find myself locked in place as unseen horrors surround me, enveloping me until I wake up shaking. Every night I wonder about Willow's dreams. How did she harness those wild thoughts into such beautiful things? Simple beauties, floating through the subconscious, filling us with wonder. Those dreams are lost to me, and I wonder if I'll ever feel that joy, that confusion again.

I used to tell stories about my aunts.

Willow and Xander used to say that my stories were the best, but I believe it's only because I had the best material. They used to beg me to tell them about my aunts, and I would happily oblige. I would start all my stories the same way, and they never seemed to tire of it.

'Once upon a time, there were seven women who had nothing in common except that they were siblings of a woman named Joyce Summers,' I would begin. 'They were the Kent sisters.'

'Tell us about them!' Willow would always say at that point.

'The oldest sister was called Cordelia, and she would call herself the most outspoken of the sisters. The real truth was that most of them were contenders for that title. She had long dark hair, and married a wealthy man called Allen Francis Doyle when she was very young.'

Predictably, at that point, Xander would always ask the same question. 'What happened to Doyle?'

I would smile, and answer the same as I always did. 'Doyle was killed when he tried to defend a bank teller during a robbery. Aunt Cordy would always tell us how he died helping the helpless.

'The next sister was called Anya. She never married, and spent all her time in the shop she owned, counting her money. When she was younger, she'd spend all her time in relationships with young gorgeous guys who she knew would screw up. After the relationship failed, she and her sisters would all find a way to punish the guy. They would spread rumours about him, or give him these concoctions that would lead to curious but usually mild illnesses.'

At that point Xander would always make the same joke about how it was no surprise that she never married. Willow and I would smile like always, and I would continue.

'The next sister was called Tara, who was really smart, and very enigmatic. She always told us that there was real magic in this world, and real evil too. She was very quiet with strangers but when she was with her sisters she opened up and became the most interesting person in the room.'

'She sounds wonderful,' Willow would breathe at this point.

'The fourth sister was called Joyce, and she married a man named Hank Summers and had a beautiful baby girl named Buffy!' I would always laugh at this point, while Xander and Willow would roll their eyes at me. 'Buffy was born into this world amidst celebrations; you see, Joyce and Hank never thought they'd be able to have children.

'The next sister was called Faith. She was the toughest of the eight, and always stood up for her sisters when they were in trouble. After Faith came Kendra, whose birth was totally suspicious. Their mother had in fact been having an affair when Kendra was conceived, which was really, _really_ clear when she was born. After a few months of living with this fact, the marriage fell apart completely and their father left their again pregnant mother to raise them alone.'

'How awful!' Willow would gasp.

'However, several months later, the last product of the sisters' parents' marriage was born. Harmony was conceived just after Kendra's birth, and she was as happy a baby as they came. Cheery and vivacious, Harmony cheered up everyone after the utter devastation of their father leaving them.'

'But that's only seven!' Xander would complain.

'Ah yes,' I'd continue mysteriously, even though they both knew what was coming. 'There was one more sister to be born, as a result of their mother's second marriage. A mere year after Harmony's birth, their mother bore Glory.

'Glory was an outcast in the family, never sharing in her sisters games and instead amusing herself by immersing herself in dark things, magic and evil. When she reached the age of sixteen, she moved away from her family and travelled, searching for something to satisfy her craving for darkness.'

'Did she ever find anything?' Willow would whisper.

'I don't know. No-one's heard from her for years,' I would laugh, and that would be the end of it.

My head fills with thoughts of Glory and I can no longer recall the comforting memories of my friends.

I fall into my bed in the early hours of the morning, only having been awake for a few, and once again drift into unconsciousness with images of Glory and the party flitting through my mind.

When I wake, the first thing I hear is voices through my window. Willow and Xander have arrived for their daily visit. I hear them as they exchange awkward pleasantries with my mother. They're invited upstairs to see if they can reach me. They decline. It's the same dance, day after day. I quickly calculate the date today and realise that another visitor is due soon.

I hear Willow and Xander leave, and my mother walking slowly back to her bedroom. She needn't bother. I can hear the approach of someone else outside already.

I believe this time alone has made me hear the tiniest noises through the thick sheets of silence that surround me. Aunt Tara would tell me that this is an everyday magic. I used to believe her instantly when she spoke of the world this way. To think that there were divine, romantic reasons for little things seemed so beautiful. But now I find it hard to believe there's any kind of magic in the world. This time alone has also made me see evil everywhere.

As I predicted, someone arrived at the door, announcing that arrival by ringing the doorbell. The sharp noise shot through the house like an alarm bell. None of our visitors ever rang the doorbell. They used soft knocks to announce their presence, as if too loud a noise would make this fragile house fall down.

There was only one person who rang the doorbell anymore.

'Spike?' I heard my mother say downstairs.

'Joyce. She come out yet?'

Spike was a friend of mine from school. Never as close as Willow or Xander, he was nevertheless a confidante and occasional study buddy. He came here every week, the only one of my friends to actually come into the room and see me. He tells me everything I'm missing, locked up here in my tomb. He begs me to awaken. He doesn't know what happened, because no-one knows. They think they do, but they don't, and I'm not telling them.

'No, Spike. She's still upstairs.'

I hear the heavy stomping of his big black biker boots as he makes his way to my room.

I arrange myself on the bed, and close my eyes just as he walks in.

''Ello Buffy.'

Even with my eyes shut, I can picture the scene perfectly in my head. Spike is standing in the doorway with my mother hovering behind him. He's wearing a long black leather duster even through winter in California is hardly cold enough for one. He's probably got a red shirt on over a black t-shirt, or maybe just a black shirt on. His jeans are black and his boots are the same as always.

That's one of the comforting things about Spike. He never ever changes.

'I can take it from here, Joyce,' I hear him say. His voice is loud compared with the hushed tones everyone else uses around me.

I hear my mother pad away, probably to go back to her room with her favourite schnapps.

Spike shuts the door behind him, and stomps over to sit in the chair next to my bed. He reaches over and I can feel him brush some hair off my face.

'You're awake.'

He knows. He always knows.

My eyes stay resolutely shut.

'Fine.' He sighs. 'Have Willow and Xander been yet today? They probably have…' he sits back in his chair; I hear it creaking. 'Bet they didn't come up.'

I flinch, and I know he sees it.

'I knew it.' He sighs again. 'I wish I could make this better, pet…Please just look at me?'

He's made the same pleas for the past two weeks. I can't look at him for the same reason Willow and Xander can't look at me. I'm scared of what I might see. I'm terrified that my silence is hurting him; them; everyone, and I'll be able to see it.

'Please, pet, talk to me?'

I've always heard voices in my head. Alive and pure and singing to me with their innocence. That voice is different now. It's sharp, and talks in riddles. The meandering streams of silliness that once flowed through my mind are gone, dry. I know that if I started to speak, I would have a different voice.

I sense him leaning over me. I can feel the heat radiating from him as he grabs my shoulders.

Suddenly for reasons I can't fathom, I was crying. Two tears eked out from under my eyelids, and, seeing this, Spike let go of me like I was electrically charged.

'You know I'm here. You know I'm here…'

As Spike fell silent, I found myself thinking back to a time just before the party. I was with Willow and Xander, and we were discussing the guest list.

'Are you going to invite him?' Willow had said excitedly.

'I don't know if I can…he's so busy, and so far away!'

'He loves you, Buffy, he'll come!' Xander had insisted.

'Okay…we'll send an invite,' I'd agreed, smiling happily. Suddenly we'd all become aware of Spike lurking nearby, a certain look on his face. I'd seen that look before. Hurt, confused, and slightly angry.

'Spike!' I'd called, still smiling. 'Come join us!'

'Nah,' he'd replied in his rough cockney accent. 'I'll leave you guys to your party stuff. Guess I'll be meeting your honey there…' He'd turned his back and walked away.

'Okay, was that just me or did he seem totally jealous?' Willow had raised her eyebrow knowingly.

'Spike? Jealous? Over me? Don't be silly, Will!' I'd grinned, dismissing the thought.

Xander had shaken his head at me before we'd moved onto another topic, and this was what was on my mind as I lay here with Spike marvelling over two tiny tears that I'd shed while he was with me.

Spike and I had always had a strictly friendly relationship. He and I weren't remotely compatible. In fact we'd fought bitterly the first few years we knew each other. And yet here he was. Rejoicing over a tiny indication that I still recognised him, and knew he was there.

While Spike was there, I believe I fell asleep. When I awoke, I had turned in my sleep onto my stomach, and Spike was gone. I'm certain that he's still marvelling over the fact I'd moved as much as to turn over in his presence.

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A/N: Let me know what you think, please.


	2. Chapter 2

Disclaimer: See Chapter One.

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Sometimes when nightmares seem too close, I allow myself to think of the one person who I think I would allow to wake me from my slumber. He hasn't called for weeks, I know, but he's out there, somewhere. My Angel, somewhere in L.A. I wonder if he knows what happened?

I sent him an invitation to the party. I remember that.

My mind drifts to thoughts of my time with Angel…those brief months. His wordless promise that he'd never stop loving me. How I _wish_ he'd come to the party.

Suddenly, the familiar sound of crunching gravel reaches my ears through my open window; someone's coming up the driveway. My senses tell me that it's Spike, again… but he never comes two days in a row.

The doorbell rings, and I know it's him. I assemble myself on the bed, attempting to feel curious as to why he's here, but failing miserably.

My mother's as surprised as I am. She leads him upstairs; I can hear her rasping breath. Spike's voice is unusually controlled as he thanks her and closes my bedroom door.

He sits in the chair he occupied yesterday, still at my bedside.

'Buffy?'

I lie motionless, as always.

'Buffy, open your eyes. I bloody know you're awake.'

His voice is harsher than usual. I can't imagine why. I can't imagine much anymore. I can only remember.

'Dammit, Buffy. Talk to me!'

I feel his breath on my face as he leans over me. I wish I could talk to him. I wish I could spring up and laugh at my previous condition. I wish I could go back to school and see Willow and Xander. I wish I could listen to Giles speaking in his soothing British accent, I wish I could watch my mother paint and my father pruning the garden on a sunny day. But I _can't_.

'What?' Spike said, suddenly alert. 'Did you say something, Buffy?'

I hadn't. Had I?

'You said you can't. Can't what, Buffy?'

I had spoken aloud…was the spell broken? It couldn't be. I still felt paralysed. And I knew that Spike would never be the one who could wake me.

And yet…

I jump a mile; suddenly Spike was lifting me slightly, pushing me into an upright position on the bed. I shy away from his touch, and shiver violently.

'Shi- Buffy, I'm sorry, I shouldn't have done that,' he whispers.

I can hear the plea for forgiveness in his voice. Maybe…maybe I _could_ talk to Spike. He cared enough to come back. Even though he knows there was no guarantee I'd ever speak again.

I take a deep breath, and in my mind's eye, I can see Spike's shocked reaction to me moving in his presence.

Keeping my eyes soldered shut; I speak my first intended word in weeks.

'Spike.' More a sigh than a word.

'Buffy? Oh my God, Buffy!' Spike's eyes would be widening now.

'I'm …' what could I possibly say to him that could convey what I was feeling? I'm dying? I'm hurt? I'm scared?'

'I'm sorry…' I whisper.

'Don't be, Buffy, let me get your mum!' He jumps up, knocking the chair aside in his haste.

'No!' I cry hoarsely, my eyes flying open.

For a moment that seemed like eternity, we stare at each other. His huge blue eyes look scared. There's another emotion there, one I can't quite decipher.

Spike looks away first. 'No.'

Its disappointment. I can see that now.

'Please, don't,' I whisper, pleading.

'Alright then,' he replies, his voice breaking. He rights the chair and sits back down.

Now that my eyes are open, I can't shut them again. I can't stop staring at him.

The one person who I'd assumed would still be exactly the same…had changed.

His white blonde locks are tousled and unruly, not slicked back like normal. His naturally dark roots are showing, there's a clear inch of brown underneath the blonde. I've never seen that before.

His always pale skin looks waxy; there's a light smattering of stubble around his jaw. His cerulean blue eyes have deep purple shadows beneath them, and he looks _so_ tired. His clothes are rumpled, an old black shirt and faded black jeans with a hole at the knee. This isn't right, they can't possibly be his…Spike never looks like this. The only hint of familiarity is his leather duster, slung around his oddly skinny shoulders and brushing his calves as always.

'What?' He asks me, breaking through my thoughts.

I can't speak. This is such a pale caricature of my friend…what have I done to him?

'You look – uh…' I cough. My voice isn't used to being used.

He strides over to the mirror on the inside of my wardrobe. 'I look the same as always.' He frowns at his reflection.

'Your hair?' I feel horrible as soon as I say it. It was small and petty to be commenting on his appearance after what I've put him through. I'm sure I don't look my best either.

'I haven't been keeping up with it, no.' He tries to smile; it looks more like a grimace. 'I can't believe you're talking to me, Buff. I thought I'd never hear your voice again.'

I can't help it, I begin to cry again.

'Don't tell anyone I spoke to you,' I whisper. He looks confused. 'I can't face them yet, and they can't know I'm talking now.' I wipe my eyes and look up at him. 'They can never know.'

He just looks at me, his forehead creased, his scarred eyebrows furrowed into a frown.

I slide my eyes shut again. I hear him sigh. Disappointment.

He leaves without saying goodbye. I hear him slip downstairs and say goodbye to my mother.

I try desperately to listen to their conversation.

'She's the same as always, Joyce.'

I sigh in relief, until I hear my mother's dry, hiccuppy sob. I wish I could soothe her.

'Goodbye then, Spike,' she calls softly as his boots connect again with the gravel of the driveway.

He stomps away, and I inhale sharply, and rearrange my limbs on my bed, resuming my position as a carved angel on a tomb.

My mother pads in and begins straightening my already immaculate room.

I fall asleep again, wondering idly if my mother thinks of me as a carved angel…and if my own Angel ever thinks of me at all.

A: Please Review and let me know what you think!


	3. Chapter 3

Disclaimer: See chapter one.

A/N: Sorry about the huge wait, I've had a lot on my plate lately, and I've not been keeping up with this fic. I hope you enjoy this chapter.

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As my mother slips out of my bedroom door, only moments after she entered, I let my breath rush out of me. My shoulders shake as I convulse into sobs. I pad across the room and turn the key in the lock. I've never done that before; part of me hopes my mother doesn't come back to find it locked. I'm shutting her out enough, without locking her out too. I wish it didn't have to be this way.

Many many hundreds of years ago, when I wasn't afraid of the sun, I used to have friends up in this room. Willow and Xander would come up here, our escape away from the world, and we would talk about bright things, and tell stories, and share in each other's company, until the moon shone in the California sky and they returned home. We three would laugh as we looked at my old photographs, poring over them, giving the occupants marks out of ten for beauty or sex appeal, which Xander would insist was something quite different. The favourite photograph to do such with was an old, ornately framed one, featuring all my aunts, except the dreaded Glory. It was faded from sitting on my windowsill for so long. It never catches the sun anymore; it lies face down on my dresser. I imagine taking it out of the gilt frame and tearing it up, but I wont. Perhaps if I took it out I wouldn't need to tear it; it would just crumble. Fade away like everyone else in my life has.

Except Spike. Spike is still very much here, solid and stalwart. A wave of guilt rushes over me, and I'm sobbing again.

I'm in the library at Sunnydale High, and Mr Giles is shelving books.

'Ah, Buffy,' he says in his oh so British accent.

'Giles?' I reply smoothly.

'Help me sort out the new books,' he says after a long pause which he spends surveying me quizzically.

'Are you alright, Mr Giles?' I ask him, accepting the heavy books he gives me.

'Yes of course, Buffy,' he says, frowning, 'but I'm not sure you are.'

'I'm sure I'm fine, Mr Giles,' I say nervously. Why am I nervous?

He continues handing me books, until I look down and it's not a book, it's a mirror.

'A mirror,' I say, and laugh gaily.

'Mirrors have many dark connotations, Buffy,' Giles says gravely, but I keep on laughing.

'Not another lecture!' I say as I laugh louder and louder. I can barely hear Giles as he says;

'_Another_ lecture?' and soon all I can hear is my laughter and then it's not laughter, it's sobbing, and I look into the mirror and there's no reflection.

'Where am I, Giles?' I yell, but there's no reply, he just looks gravely on, and there are Willow and Xander behind him, shielding their eyes. '_Where am I_?' I scream as I wake up.

That night, Parker's face swam above mine until the early hours of the morning.

Parker was the son of a business associate of my father's, and when we were young children, we were coerced into playing together, even though any child knows that even if you are of around the same age there is no guarantee of you getting along. Adults overlook this, and I'm ashamed to say I'm guilty of it too.

Parker seemed much older than me, but in reality, it was barely over a year's difference. He would tease me around the adults, and they would laugh merrily, but when we were by ourselves, he would watch me and lick his red lips, showing his pointed teeth off like a wolf would before eating its prey.

Days, months, an eternity later, I somewhere between sleeping and waking, the doorbell chimes. My eyes float open as I realise it's been barely a day since my nightmare. I look down at myself. My nightdress has ridden up and my pillow is wet with tears.

I arrange myself as my mother reaches the front door; I hear her unlocking it, removing the chain.

I am in my carved angel pose when my door opens, and so many familiar senses sweep over me it makes me want to cry. I can smell the leather of his coat, and the musty scent of his aftershave, and his hair gel, and I can sense his penetrating glare and his body heat radiating from him, warming the deadened room.

But it's all lies. It's subconscious telling me what I want to hear. I've seen him, seen his sunken features and his pale skin hanging from his thin frame. He looks haunted.

My mother leaves the room and he takes his seat next to me bed.

'Buffy,' he greets me. When I don't respond, his voice is a little harsher. 'Look at me.'

Slowly, unsteadily, I open my eyes.

'That's better,' he says unsurely. It's not better. We both know that. There is no good side to this experience, no lucky side to this coin. My eyes being open only serves to make it more real.

'So, I suppose you want to know about your friends?' he asks me. I don't. For someone so perceptive, Spike is clueless with me.

'Well, let's see…Willow's been down lately. She's been…she hasn't been well. Buff, I think she's got a problem…' he trails off, and I realise that he's talking about her substance abuse. I can't think about it, don't want to think about it…

'And Xander, he's been…never mind,' he pauses, thinking.

'Dawn's been having some trouble at school,' he says, clasping his hand over his lap. I close my eyes again. Dawn is Spike's sister. I used to see her so often I thought of her as my own sister. But I don't want to hear about their lives now. I want to remember their lives the way they used to be…when I was the way I used to be.

'Spike,' I whisper. I open my eyes. He's perched on the edge of his seat, and for the first time, I notice his appearance. 'Your hair…'

He smiles slightly, and raises a pale hand to his head. 'I fixed it,' he says. It's bright white again, and slicked back. I really could smell the hair gel.

My face twists into a smile.

His eyes widen. I hear his pulse race.

'Tell me a story?' I whisper pleadingly to him.

I can concentrate any more. My memories are slipping away from me.

There is a long pause as Spike contemplates his task, brow furrowing in concentration.

'Once upon a time,' he begins falteringly, 'a boy was all alone on his first day at a new school.'

He glances at me as if to check that the story is suitable.

'He was an awkward sort, British, you know, and dead weird, with silly white hair and a leather coat, with too much rock music blaring in his ears.' He clears his throat, and I sigh. He continues, his voice growing stronger. 'So this boy wandered all over campus, until he walked into this big, creepy room, filled with books, and an old, cantankerous English guy called Giles. He was sitting with three students, a boy and two girls. One of the girls was telling a story.' He looks at me again. 'And I'm gonna tell you the story she was telling that day.'

I gulp. I can't remember what story I was telling the day I first met Spike. Isn't that awful? I remember him walking into the library, and I remember asking him to join us, Willow, Xander, Mr Giles and I, because he seemed so lonely.

'She was talking about her aunts,' he says, his accent making the words roll around in his mouth so that when they met my ears they were covered in sugar. 'She was telling her mates about the day she was christened.' I shut my eyes tight. The day of the Ill-wishing. How strange that this was the story I told the day we first met.

'She was banging on about these aunts for a bit, and truth be told, I wasn't at all interested,' he says tonelessly. 'But then,' he says, his voice gaining colour, 'she mentions some…malediction…'

The curse, of course. They call it the Ill-Wishing in my family. I never knew why.

'Apparently, her aunts had given up on her mother ever producing a child, so when it turned out she was pregnant, they began preparing the festivities – it was like a princess being born, I reckon.'

He's right, I think. A princess. Princess Buffy. That's what my eighteenth was for, I remind myself, and I very quickly tune back into his story.

'There's some very dull stuff about her birth at first – thunder, lightning, a birth at the stroke of midnight, and so on…but there's not a sniff of a curse yet. I began to think this Buffy person was a fraud.'

His words wash over me; hot in some places, frozen in others. I can't tell if it's the story making me feel this way or if it is just the way I always feel. Half dead.

'And then, before she got to the part about the Ill-wishing, she began explaining about her aunt Glory. Now, at first I was impatient about this…but then, she began to show who – or more precisely what – her aunt Glory was. She was apparently a very strange, peculiar child, who tried to murder her siblings at least once a week when she was a baby.'

Of course, my family had thought this was natural at the time, with so many girls; of course it was natural that the youngest was jealous of the others. It would pass, they said, it would pass.

'There were all sorts of strange occurrences that happened around Glory…' Spike continues, frowning slightly. 'Mutilated animal corpses buried wherever she was staying…a house catching fire just after she left it…a women whom she considered a rival fell down a flight of stairs to her death…thing is,' he says, eyes almost gleaming with their former shine, 'she was never actually found to be the cause. She was always near the place…but never near enough. So she gained herself a reputation.'

This is true. No-one could ever prove her guilty. And when my grandmother died, she found herself the most unsuitable man she could, a penniless artist whose paintings never sold, and she moved to Paris and lived in a garret. No one knew how she kept up with events, not really.

'Anyway…'Spike continued. 'It was little Buffy's christening, and all her aunts were assembled - except for the dreaded Glory.'

How right he was.

'So the aunts were all sitting, six of them, not including Glory or little Buffy's mum…and they were talking about the presents they'd bought the kid.'

I frown. Surely he can't remember every one of the gifts my aunts gave me?

'The first aunt, Cordelia, wanted to give Buffy the gift of _love_…' Spike wrinkles his nose. 'So she gives her a locket. Don't ask me how that works, pet, I don't know.' I almost laugh.

'The next aunt, Anya, wanted to give the gift of money. So she bought the baby some shares in something or other. Exactly what every baby wants,' he says, stretching his arms out. I sniff lightly.

The next one, Kendra wanted to give the baby intelligence, so she gave it a book. _A Child's Garden of Verses._ Then aunt Harmony wanted to gift the baby with beauty, which I gather Harmony had a lot of. She gave her a pearl necklace.'

I spy the very same pearl necklace, lying discarded on my dresser, were it was strewn the night of the party. My mother hasn't touched it since. Neither have I.

'Then, the aunts, plus Joyce and Buffy, were all having a jolly time of it at their little party, when who walked in but Glory.'

Glory. They should have know, seen the storm approaching. Watched for the signs.

'Glory then proceeded to demand to see the little girl, at which point she gifted it with a jet mourning brooch. She said 'I gift the girl with death…don't worry, I'm not going to kill her now. This is just a – a _memento mori_. Rememeber she will die. One final fling, at eighteen perhaps, and then out like a candle.' Then she swept from the room, and a crash of thunder sounded out.'

His words make me shiver. He's only heard the story once, and although it's not word perfect, it's close enough to terrify me.

'And then, out of the blue, Aunt Tara pads in, and no-one realised she was even gone! When her sisters catch her up on what's happened, she says to the room 'Oh, you all gave her pretentious presents – well I've seen many children enter this world, and I'm going to give Buffy was I wished for them. It may not be much, but I hope it's enough to dilute Glory's curse. I wish Buffy a long and healthy life.''

I remember how disappointed Xander had been with that statement. He insisted that glory was a more powerful character, and that Tara's wish would have no effect. It was only when Willow elbowed him hard in the ribs and reminded him of Tara's belief in everyday magic that he quietened down.

Of course, that was before we all believed the curse.

'I wasn't too impressed when I first heard it,' Spike says, echoing my thoughts, 'But I reckon she's right. I reckon you'll live a long life, pet. A long, long life…'

His voice fades, and I am asleep. When I wake, he is gone and I don't know if I was dreaming or not.


	4. Chapter 4

Disclaimer: See chapter one.

A/N: Again, it's been ages since I've updated this one. Sorry, stuff's been getting in the way again.

I'm still not certain of pairings in this story, so if you have any suggestions for me, let me know. Hope you enjoy this chapter, and as always, please review.

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I am aware that I am asleep, but for some reason I am at The Bronze.

I can see Xander and Willow, and they gesture for me to join them. I move toward them, but it is hard to walk; I look to the ground and see that I am walking through treacle. It's hard to move. I bend down to taste it, and it's not treacle, it's ashes, and I'm sinking through them like quicksand.

I wave frantically at Willow and Xander, but they are oblivious. They stand, smiling, waiting for me to reach them. I try to yell, but I have no voice. I crane my neck to search for help, and I see Angel standing in the corner. I try to scream his name, but as my mouth forms the noiseless word, he crumbles to dust in front of me, and Parker is behind him, laughing, and then I am completely submerged in the ash, and I cannot breathe, and I am crying, ash in my eyes, willing someone to find me, but no-one does.

Slowly, the ash get inside my mouth and down my throat and in my eyes and ears and nose, and I can't breath, or see, or think, and I am aware that I am becoming the ash, there is no difference between it and I now, we are one, and I cannot be anything but wreckage now.

When I wake, I get up from my bed and go to my mirror. It has been facing the wall ever since the party, and I have been thankful not to see my reflection. I'm scared of what I'll see, but ever since I saw the change in Spike, I have been anxious to know what I have turned into.

I grasp the edges of the heavy mirror, and, groaning with the weight of it after having done nothing more strenuous than using the bathroom for weeks; I turn it round to face me.

At first I am surprised at how little I have changed.

My face is still my face, my hair is still my hair, I have not been replaced by a monster, or a corpse, no matter how much I feel like one.

But I stare longer into the mirror, and I am aware of the gauntness of my face; there's a paleness there that wasn't there before. I see the faint bruises on my arms and chest, and I briefly close my eyes. When I open them again, I notice the deep purple shadows beneath my eyes, which have not dissipated, even with all the sleep I've been having. My hair is longer and unkempt; I have a sudden urge to brush it.

It is this more than anything that surprises me. I didn't think I would be capable of such urges ever again.

Shakily, I reach for the gilt hairbrush on my dresser, and tentatively, I pull it through my long hair.

Some of my hair falls out at the brush's intrusion, and gathers on the floor by my feet.

I continue, tugging at the harder knots, not caring about the pain it causes me, almost savouring it.

When I finish, my golden hair shines dully in the dim room. I replace the hairbrush exactly where I found it, and I fix my stare on my reflection again. It's still me. I haven't changed.

Suddenly I remember my dream, where I'd been swallowed by ash, and I return to my bed, slipping under the heavy sheets and closing my eyes, anticipating the visitor I have grown to expect every day.

Of course I've changed.

Sure enough, I soon hear the nearby thud of Spike's boots as he walks up our street, the crunch of gravel as he crosses the driveway, and the shrill ring of the doorbell when he reaches the front door.

My mother has also predicted his arrival; she is poised, waiting, somewhere near the door. She answers it quickly, and ushers Spike in wordlessly.

I hear him as he climbs the stairs, and this time, when he opens the door, my eyes are open.

He enters, closing the door behind him. My mother is not there; she has returned to her bedroom already.

Spike walks towards me and sits in his usual chair.

'You look…better,' he says, almost hopefully.

My tired face almost smiles, but is unable to.

'No I don't,' I say, my voice cracking through lack of use.

'No, you don't,' he agrees. 'But you look different.'

I don't reply. It's not a question.

'I've been talking to Mr Giles,' Spike says. I meet his eyes. 'He's – he's worried about you.' I mean, of course he is, everyone is, but…' he falters. I think I know what's coming. 'Do you think he could come up here and maybe, tell you stories, like he used to. And if you wanted, you know…' he looks at me nervously, running a hand through his white hair. 'You could talk to him.'

I close my eyes. I thought that was where he was going with that.

'No, Spike. I – I can't talk to anyone.' I open my eyes and look at the ceiling. I'm suddenly too hot, much too hot.

'Just me,' he almost sighs. 'Why? Why me?'

I hesitate to answer. My mind is much too preoccupied with my sudden hot flush, and it's reminding me uncomfortably of my nightmare.

'Because…because you…because we were never very close.'

Spike looks hurt. 'I mean…what I mean is that you don't expect me…to go back to normal…to be myself. Because you didn't know me very well.'

'I knew you,' he whispers, sounding mildly indignant. And sad.

'Not like…the others. You didn't know me like W-Willow and Xander.'

'Right,' he says, and he sounds disappointed again. 'You're just afraid they'll try and make you be yourself again? And you don't think I will?'

I'm sorry to hurt him. But it's true. I know he'll let me be, and Willow and Xander, if they ever came in here, would be too horrified at this new me. They'd try and change me back. And I'm not ready.

'So,' he looks me in the eye. 'What do you want to do?'

'Tell me about my friends,' I whisper.

'Current affairs or ancient history?' Spike sighs, his long white fingers tracing patterns on his duster.

'Ancient history,' I say, almost firmly. He smiles wearily and closes his eyes. I know he's trying to remember.

'Well,' he begins slowly, 'the last time I saw the three of you together in any kind of interesting situation, was in the park, a good few months ago now.'

I frown, and he takes in my changed expression.

'I – I can tell a different one if you like – I'm sorry Buffy, I just thought…'

'No – It's just – I can't remember,' I say in a quiet voice. It's true. I don't know what he's going to tell me.

'Well, you three were sitting in the park – with all your aunts, Buffy. You were planning - um, you were planning the party. Should I tell a different one?' He asks me sadly.

I remember now, but I'm ready to hear it.

'No. Go on.'

'You were planning the dress,' he says falteringly.

This is true. There had been committees of aunts for weeks discussing the formation and design of the dress for my party. It had started over a year before the party, when I had been having tea at my Aunt Anya's house with Cordelia, Harmony, Kendra and Tara. Kendra had been taking the position that we shouldn't make a fuss about my 18th, because of the threat of the malediction. Harmony waved this aside, stating that if we were believers in all the other gifts they'd given me, then they must believe in what Glory had done, and not let it stop them. 'Glory be damned. Can you imagine the satisfaction it would give her if we went about feeling cowed?'

We had finally decided to meet in the park – neutral ground, with all the aunts, to discuss the dress in finality.

'…So apparently Kendra wanted to put you in mauve silk, or something like that,' Spike continued, oblivious to my daydreaming. Anya shot that down and suggested turquoise with frills. Harmony thought that pink was the colour for a young girl - the 'palest blush,' she said.'

He was right. She and Cordelia had fought over which shades of pink were vulgar for around fifteen minutes before Tara intervened.

'…So Tara suggested buttercup yellow chiffon. She thought you'd look sweet; but she really just wanted them to shut up, I reckon. That was when you noticed me lurking and invited me to join you.'

I remembered. Cordelia had glared at me for interrupting her dramatic revelation…

'…Turned out that Cordelia had kept a bunch of silk and lace and stuff for years, and had already figured the basic design of the dress,' Spike drawled.

I slipped back to that day, and listened to Aunt Cordelia tell us all about her imaginings of my dress. 'I have several yards of Italian silk, the colour of old ivory, and some amounts of Belgian lace. I envisage a high waisted dress, with the silk skirt overlaid with lace, and the lace rising like a sort of mist to surround the bare shoulders…' Willow had beamed, I had gasped, and even Xander looked impressed. My other aunts were enchanted by Aunt Cordelia's design. Spike had chuckled under his breath.

'I remember how silly you'd all seemed that day, fussing over a bloody dress,' Spike smiled gently. 'But you looked beautiful that night, Buffy, you did.'

I wasn't aware that I'd been smiling, but as he says that, my smile slips off my face.

Spike notices, and apologises quietly. We are silent for a time, before he speaks again. 'How about you tell me one of your world renowned stories?' he asks.

'I don't know if I can anymore.' I croak. It's the truth. I don't know if I can speak for any length of time anymore.

'Try,' he urges. He won't give up.

'Once,' I begin, faltering, coughing, spluttering. 'Once, there was a woman named Joyce Kent, who married a man named Hank Summers.' He nodded encouragingly. It didn't matter what I spoke about, he was just pleased beyond belief to hear me speak. 'They were married for fourteen years, and yet were still childless. Joyce's sisters were worried; Joyce wasn't as young as she'd once been. Try as they might, they could not conceive.' I closed my eyes momentarily, steeling myself for the rest of the story. 'One day, Joyce had to meet Hank in Los Angeles, before he took a business trip to Europe. They'd arranged to meet for dinner and spend the night in a hotel, before Joyce returned home. Hank had the car, so Joyce took a train. The train was full to bursting with men, women and children of all shapes and sizes, and Joyce trawled though what seemed like miles of train until she came to a compartment that, miraculously, only had one person in it, an old woman dressed in black.'

Spike has his eyes closed and his head is tilted back. I know he knows the story but I continue anyway.

'After a few polite, preliminary comments about the weather, the women began to talk like old friends. Joyce felt as though the rest of the train had melted away and there was nothing but this compartment, and the purple evening rushing by. Joyce found the woman remarkably easy to talk to, and soon found herself confessing her longing for a baby, and the medical examinations she and Hank had taken in order to discover why they hadn't conceived. Joyce wept, and raged, and apologised for her tears. It was then that the woman stood up and told Joyce that 'By this time tomorrow, there will be no need to cry.' Then she left. Joyce thought shat she must have left at the next station, but she peered out of the window and could see no sign of her.' Spike nodded once, his eyes still fast shut. 'The compartment filled up at once,' I said, 'and soon Joyce arrived in L.A., where she met Hank. Exactly nine months later…I was born.'

Spike tilted his head forward and looked me in the eye.

'You did it,' he breathes. 'I knew you could.'

Almost without another word, he smiles at me and leaves my room. It's the longest anyone has spent with me since the party. When he leaves I think about all that has happened today, the story I told, and yet, as always, my mind drifts back to the place where I am saddest. I think about Angel, and how we'd fallen in love. Unknown to me, he was a soldier in the army, and shortly after we'd met, he needed to leave. He wrote often at first. I haven't heard from him in some months. Despite the lightness of my day, the darkness of the night overpowers me, and I am claimed by sleep, and tears.

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Please let me know your thoughts. Reviews really, really help. Hope you enjoyed!


	5. Chapter 5

Disclaimer: See chapter one.

A/N: _WARNING! Rape flashback._

It's been a stupidly long time since I've updated, but this is the penultimate chapter, and I should be finished soon. I'm sorry it's been so long, but please read and review, and enjoy (if you can. It's pretty dark).

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Chapter Five.

I wake suddenly. I haven't done that since I first locked myself up here. I seemed to always be awake when I needed to be. But today I wake without warning, at some unknown noise.

My door slams open, and I keep my eyes clamped shut.

'Spike, no,' I hear my mother saying. 'Don't, just leave her. Please don't.'

'Leave it to me, Joyce,' Spike says gruffly. 'She needs to hear this.'

'We're not even sure if she _can_ hear, Spike,' my mother says piteously.

'She knows I'm here.' Spike says securely.

I hear him march toward me and sit in his usual chair.

My mother closes the door and pads away, almost inaudibly, but I can still hear her.

'Open your eyes.'

I can't. I won't.

'Open your bloody eyes, Buffy!'

I try to remember his last visit. It had only been yesterday, hadn't it? Time was so difficult to keep track of.

I open my eyes, slowly; lethargically. He's glaring at me. His roots are beginning to show through again and he looks tired. 'Spike?' I croak.

'You know bloody well it's me. You've been awake the whole time. You think I don't know you, Buffy, but I do.'

'Why are you being like this?' I ask him, fearfully.

'I'm not…I'm just…' he trails off and looks me in the eye. 'Something's happened.'

A heavy, cold weight slides down to my stomach. 'Happened?' I whisper.

'It's Willow,' he says. 'And it's Dawn. And Xander. It's everyone, Buffy. And it's you.'

I remain silent. I have nothing to say to this. I don't want to know, don't want to hear about my friends' problems, I want to think about them happy like we were. Not like we are.

'Willow.'

No. I can't hear about her. Her abuse of…whatever she was taking…was getting bad even when I still knew her. I don't know her anymore.

'Willow's in trouble.'

No. No, no, _no_. I can't know this. I can't.

'She's been seeing this guy; he's hooking her up with really hard stuff.'

I remember her pure, sweet face. Her long, red hair. Her big, goofy smile. She can't be doing this, it isn't Willow.

'She crashed a car yesterday.'

I try to drown out his voice, but it cuts through to my consciousness.

'Dawnie was with her, Buffy. She crashed a car with dawn in it. Her arm is broken.'

I avoid his gazed, I stare at the wall, I try to concentrate on something else. Anything else.

'And Dawn's a total klepto…' he's saying beside me. 'She's been banned from almost every shop in the mall.'

My mind cannot take this in. Dawn? Good little Dawn? She loves school, and she adores Spike. She would never steal. _Never._

'Xander…God, Buffy, he's being messed about by one girl after the other. There's been a teacher, a foreign exchange girl and a girl who was with him for his car. Not to mention the bird that left him tied up all night. They keep using him, Buffy, and he doesn't have anyone to keep him grounded! He's lost you, he's lost Willow, and he's lost without the two of you!'

'I don't care.'

I hear the voice, I know it's mine, but I can't believe I'm saying it.'

'You don't care.' Spike repeats.

'I can't, Spike.' I have to explain to him. I can't let him think what he's thinking. 'I need to be here, alone, because I have to heal myself. I can't know these things about the others…they can't change, because then I'll know I have.'

Spike looks at me, long and hard.

'Bollocks.'

I blink rapidly. Spike rarely swore with me.

'They're changing,' Buffy, you need to accept it. I can't pretend to know what you're goin' through…'

No. he can't.

'…But your friends'll not be the same when you wake up. Things've changed. It's been _months_.'

I don't say anything. I won't. He can't…he can't just come in and say…

I can't even reason with myself. Maybe he should be here. Telling me the truth. All everyone does is lie to me. Because that's what I've wanted. Maybe truth is better.

I hear Parker's voice in my ear… '_The truth is, sweetheart, that you'll be mine tonight. No-one else's. Don't let 'em fool you…_'

Truth hurts.

But it's better than lies.

'Spike…' I sigh.

'What?' Spike says roughly. I can tell he's finished kid-gloving me.

'That night…the night of the party…'

Spike frowns slightly, and leans in closer. 'Yeah?' he says, his voice softening again.

I gulp in air; my breath hitches and I splutter.

'C'mon, Buffy,' Spike mutters. I can tell he's been waiting for this.

'You found me, didn't you?'

There is a long silence. I study my bedcovers while he decides on his answer.

'I did. I didn't realise you…'

'You didn't realise I knew?' I ask, softly.

'You were catatonic, Buffy,' Spike says anxiously. 'I thought you were… I didn't think you were conscious.'

'I wasn't…really,' I say, looking up at him. 'I knew what was going on around me…' my brow wrinkles into a frown. 'I just couldn't be a part of it.'

'That's when you stopped talking?' Spike asks gently.

I nod. 'Yes,' I whisper.

'What happened, Buffy? No one's ever really known,' Spike says, reaching for my face, to brush away a hair.

I turn my head away from his hand.

I am about to tell him what I've not told anyone, what I've tried to think as little of as possible. The thing that every nightmare makes me re-live. The night where my perfect life ended and everything became riddles and darkness.

'There was a boy,' I say, as quietly as possible. Spike inches closer to me, leaning in to hear my whispered words. I wait for his response but he gives none.

'He was – he was…' I trail off.

I can't do this. It's too real. It's too _hard_. I have to – I don't know how…

Spike looks into my eyes, and tilts his head slightly to my left.

This is the look that makes me feel like he can see right through me. Usually it makes me feel stripped, like I cannot hide anything from his searching, penetrating eyes. But this time…this time, it's a sweet relief I wasn't expecting, that I didn't know existed anymore.

'Tell me a story, Buffy,' Spike says, almost tenderly.

A story. A story, the one part of my former self I have left. A story.

How well he knows me.

'There was a girl,' I begin, 'and it was her eighteenth birthday.'

Spike nods.

'And she'd spent the whole day with her friends, getting ready for the party that night…'

I remember those blissful hours before the party, when Xander, Willow and I had lazed around my room, Willow and I doing our makeup while Xander relaxed on the bed, and tried to figure out how to tie his bow tie. I remember slipping into the dress, that perfect, beautiful, ruined dress, and Xander walking into the room afterward and dropping the tray of drinks he'd brought.

I remember my aunts walking in with a delivery from Glory. I remember the brooch she'd sent me for my birthday; an ugly, pointy star, studded all over with tiny opals, which Aunt Tara whispered were dreadfully unlucky. I remember Aunt Cordelia pinning it onto the sash I wore, right next to the bow. So the bow would hide it, she said.

I remember feeling the best I'd ever felt, and thinking that the whole night would be perfect. Especially if Angel arrived.

'She was at the door as her guests arrived. She greeted them one by one, accepting gifts and cards, and hugs and kisses. People she saw every day came. People she didn't see often came. Some that she didn't know, that he parents had invited. And some she didn't remember.'

Spike's brow furrows slightly as I talk, but he doesn't make a sound.

Not remembering is the most dangerous trick your mind can play on you.

'She had a wonderful night,' I say, 'but she felt something gnawing at her…'

Angel. He never came.

'She was alone,' I say instead. 'Her friends were wonderful, and the party was beautiful, but she was still by herself.'

Spike looks down. 'Angel,' he says, so quietly I can barely hear it.

I nod, and clench my eyes shut to stop any tears from falling.

'Suddenly,' I say, and Spike looks up at me again. 'A boy asked her to dance.'

Spike looks at me still.

'He was funny,' I say,' and charming. And attractive. The girl was swept away by him, and when she realised who he was, she wasn't scared.'

Like she should have been.

He told me after my fourth glass of champagne. He'd merrily laughed and asked if I remembered him at all. I smiled and apologised, and said I had no idea, when had we known each other? He'd said, oh it was years ago…don't you remember me at all? I made a big show of standing back and looking long and hard at him, never thinking I'd have known him. I giggled like a silly little girl, and said I didn't have a clue.

He smiled, and as those pointed teeth appeared in that large, red mouth, I knew. I knew all too well.

'Parker.'

Spike jaw tensed; I could tell he was clenching his teeth.

He'd been so charming; I really thought he'd changed.

'She recognised him, finally, and even though her instincts told her to back away…she didn't.'

I cover my face with my hands, dragging my hands backwards into my hair. 'She was angry,' I say, tears overcoming me, 'and she was jealous of the people who had people they loved with them.'

Spike reaches for my hand, and, for once, I let him.

'She went for a walk with him,' I say desperately, needing to get the story out as quickly as possible. 'She left the party and went with him. He talked, and he talked…they laughed, and before she realised it, they were back at the house.'

Tears fall in earnest now, coursing over my cheeks. I lean forward in bed; bowing my head so my hair hangs down around my face. I am still clutching Spike's hand like a lifeline.

'She was – she was having fun. For the first time that night, she didn't feel alone.'

The truth, kept dormant for so long, is spilling out of me. Those sleeping secrets are pouring out, and for one frantic second, I worry that they've become so much a part of me, if I let them go there'll be nothing left of me.

'He asked where they could go. He wanted to be alone with her.'

Spike's grip on me tightened, as he shifted his chair closer.

'She said they could go to the summerhouse. And they did.'

I did. I did everything wrong.

'She was drunk,' I whisper. 'But she knew what he was.'

When we reached the summerhouse, I began to feel a little ill.

'He told her to sit down; she'd feel better that way…'

It was very dark there, away from the lights and sounds of the party.

'He closed the door, and then he kissed her.'

Spike reaches through my canopy of hair, and tilts my chin upwards so I can see him. His eyes are sparkling, but his face is passive.

I felt a moment of pure terror as he shut the door. He was a massive black shape in the darkness, and all of a sudden I didn't feel quite so merry.

'She told him she'd love to dance with him again, that they should rejoin the party, but…'

But he laughed at that.

'But he insisted she stay. He told her she wasn't getting away so easily.'

He told me he'd like to kiss me again. To gobble me up, he said.

'He said he wanted to stay put, that he'd been having a good time. And that he was under the impression she'd been enjoying herself too.' I gulped in some air. 'He said she wasn't going to turn out to be a tease, was she?'

Spike looks away for a second.

'She said of course she wasn't but he said that was exactly what she was. A tease; she was happy to dance and flirt and kiss, and press herself up against him, soft as a lamb…but nothing else.'

He was holding me vicelike in his arms at this point. His mouth right at my ear, his words hissed into my ear, chilling me to the core.

'She didn't know what to do. He was holding her hands, crushing them so she couldn't move… and she was weak.'

I begin to shake. Spike wraps an arm around me, his other hand still firmly attached to my own. He holds me steady.

'She screamed, as loud as she possibly could.'

I shouldn't have. He let me go and I thought I would be safe but…

'He got angry…and he slapped her, hard. She fell backwards, and he towered over her. He told her the truth; that no one would hear them out here. They were all alone. And that if she screamed again… he would hurt her more.'

He had a razorblade in his pocket. '_The truth is, sweetheart, that you'll be mine tonight.'_

I closed my eyes.

'She closed her eyes. But she could still feel him, his hands, his tongue. She could smell him, and hear his breath coming faster and faster. She tried to pretend she didn't exist, she kept quiet, and still, and thought that is she just stayed still he wouldn't hurt her. He laid her down on the concrete floor, and began fumbling with her dress…'

My tears are blinding me, and it's not a story any more, it's real, it's too real but I can't stop now, I can't stop, I can't, I can't.

'He tore open the bodice, and he put his hands all over me,' I gasp, finally recognising the girl as me. He pulled at my skirts, and I could hear the material ripping. I wanted so desperately to die, Spike, I couldn't - I couldn't be there anymore…'

Spike lets go of my hand and holds me tightly to him. I sob into his shoulder, the cold leather soothing on my hot, wet face.

'I didn't die then,' I say, leaning back so I could look into his eyes for a moment. I died when -' I cast my eyes downwards again; 'I died when he rolled on top of me. When he…when I could hear myself crying for mercy. When he covered me with himself. _When I couldn't make him stop_.'

I lean my forehead on his shoulder again, and take a deep, shuddering breath. 'I don't know what happened to me after that. I remember gathering up what was left of my dress and putting it back on. I remember seeing a dim reflection of myself in the dark window. I was barely covered enough to be decent. I tried to open the door, but it was too heavy, and my hands felt like they were broken. I could see bruises blooming across my chest, and I saw the blood. I stopped trying to open the door. I stumbled back into the floor, and I touched the blood covering my thighs with a single, swollen finger.'

I close my eyes tight, and all I can see is myself staring at that red, glistening finger in horror.

'The next thing I am aware of is you. You found me.'

Spike's breathing is uneven. I can tell he's been crying through my story. He holds me carefully in his arms until he can speak again.

'You never said _any_ of this,' he chokes out.

'I couldn't,' I say. 'Until now.'

He leans his head against mine, and we cry together.

At first, you can't even say it to yourself. There's a wall, a barrier around it, a whole cavalcade of reasons not to say it aloud.

But then it dawns on you, that half truths already exist, and nothing is ever invisible. What happened to me that night - as soon as Spike found me, everyone knew what had happened. It was plain to everyone except me what had happened. I just couldn't admit _what had happened_. I thought if I told people, it would make it true and I would be forever different.

But I already was. The half truths were there. They knew the consequences, just not the steps that led to them. I think if I'd told someone straight away, I wouldn't have ended up locked away, stuck in the habit of not speaking for so long. But the secrets have finally poured out. My demons have been slain in a blaze of fire and I am cauterized.

My mother's footsteps approach, and I untangle myself from Spike's arms. He finally understands, and he lets me go.

'I will find him, Buffy,' he says lowly. 'I will find him and make him pay.'

My breath hitches again. Spike, good, noble Spike, who saw me strewn on the summerhouse floor, and picked me up and carried me here, where I needed to be, without a second thought. Spike, who visits me everyday.

Spike, who makes me want to live again.

My Mother walks in with an envelope.

'It's from Angel,' she says.

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A/N: That's as dark as it gets folks. R&R!


	6. Chapter 6

Disclaimer: See chapter one.

A/N: Again, it's been a while, but here's the last chapter of I Wish I May. I hope you enjoyed this fic, because, as difficult as it was to write it, I really like how it's turned out. Please let me know what you think!

Also, slight Richard Bach homage at the end.

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**Chapter Six**

I am frozen.

Spike stands up and walks to the door. He pauses next to my mother, and whispers something to her. I can't hear what he says, which startles me. I am so used to hearing everything.

When Spike disappears, my mother tiptoes towards me with a strange expression on her face. She leaves the envelope on my bedside table and leaves without a word.

After she leaves, I sit up. I look at the envelope for what seems like a lifetime, before snatching it up with more energy than I though I would ever possess again.

'Dear Buffy…'

I clench my eyes closed. It's almost too much to bear.

'I miss you…' 'Sorry to have missed your party…' 'I think of you often…'

'I'll see you soon.'

I look at that last sentence for a long time, before I register its meaning.

He's coming here.

The postmark reads almost three weeks ago.

I stand up; my legs are trembling beneath me. I walk to the window and I look outside, at the garden. It's overgrown and slowly dying – there's plant life everywhere; my father's carefully tended garden is a wilderness.

Except…

Except the narrow path which Spike has created by struggling through every day.

As I am staring, I see a figure approach the house.

Angel's face is clear to me even at this distance. My heart swells, and tears spring to my eyes.

He opens the gate, and steps into the overgrown garden. I watch him as he walks up the path Spike uses…

It's not a struggle for him.

He reaches the front door, and knocks three times.

My mother lets him in and I hear him slowly make his way upstairs.

He arrives at my door.

I am still at the window.

My mother is behind him, she looks stunned to see me standing.

'Buffy,' he smiles.

I try to return the smile.

My mother runs towards me, knocking Angel out of the way.

'Buffy, you're – you're standing! You're – are you better?'

I try to tell her I am. I try to tell her that I can speak again, that I can be happy again, that I've told the whole sorry tale already, that I can begin a new life and put Parker behind me.

But I can't. Angel's here…but I don't feel anything.

And suddenly, images of the last few months flash in front of my eyes. Spike carrying me here. My mother bringing the doctor to my bedside. Spike's leather jacket slung on the chair. My aunts visiting, speaking in hushed tones. Spike holding my hands. Spike telling me stories. Spike ordering me to speak.

And I realise.

I have been waiting for Angel. But not for the reasons I thought I was.

He walks towards me, and takes my face in his hands.

'I'm here, Buffy,' he whispers to me.

I reach up and take his hands away from my face.

'You're not the cure,' I whisper back, and I walk out of the room, out of my prison, and I come face to face with the man waiting outside. The man who's been here the whole time.

'I thought I had to wait for him,' I say, 'but you made me see.'

'Made you see what?' Spike asks, brushing my hair away from my face.

'You made me see that only I could break the spell,' I say. 'And you made me see that you were the cure after all.'

'The cure?' Spike asks.

'You made me tell the story. The last story. Now I'm free.'

'To start a new one?' he smiles shyly.

'To start a new one,' I agree, and he kisses me, and finally, I feel alive.

XXXXX

Finally, at last, there is nothing keeping me in my room, my secret little cave. Finally, my house, my home is waking up again. My father is outside morning 'til night, cutting and pruning and sprucing until our beautiful garden is at last rid of its thorns.

My mother is painting again, and the house is once more filled with the smell of oil paints and turpentine.

I feel as if my life has begun again. Spike is here, he's here all day now; we walk round the gardens, and we talk about everything. Things that have happened, but also things that will happen. We talk sometimes of Angel, of how after our first kiss, I had returned to my bedroom to speak with him.

I thanked him for coming to see me, and I told him how grateful I was for the brief time we'd spent together. I told him that sometimes it was purely thinking of him that got me through the nights…but that it had been Spike who got me through the days. And during the day, there's nowhere to hide, no dark corner in which to bury yourself. The days are bright, and harsh, and much, much harder to get through. He smiled at my admission, and he smiled at Spike, and then, after promising to visit some other time, he left.

Xander and Willow have been to see me, or rather, us; as Spike rarely leaves my side.

'We've been so worried!' Xander exclaimed when he first saw me. 'They told us you were in a kind of coma – we didn't know if we should visit!'

'Yeah, I don't know if you know, but we came to the house every day to see if there'd been an improvement in your – condition,' Willow adds, beaming at me.

I smiled at both of them. 'I knew – I just couldn't – I couldn't.'

They both smile encouragingly at me, and the talk turns to Xander's love life. I never told him that Spike had told me about his recent romantic failures, but I am pleased to hear that he is currently with a woman called Nancy, who apparently has a dog called Rocky.

As it sat with my friends, I could feel myself slipping back into the easy way of talking I once had. The quirky language my friends used was eking back into my system, and my mind no longer whispered riddles to me.

Willow informed me proudly that she'd been in rehab for a couple of weeks now, and was doing so well they had allowed her these special visitation privileges. I looked curiously at Spike when she told me, but she informed me that she'd been keeping it a secret, and had merely told people she was sick. She'd wanted to wait 'til I was awake to tell people, she said.

Through all of this, Spike was sitting next to me, just looking at me. He said afterwards that he'd been drinking me in. I know what he means. I can't stop looking at him. This solid, stalwart figure, around for so long... and yet it took so much for me to finally realise. I didn't need a mythic warrior, a soldier, an Angel to rescue me. I needed the man who beat a path through the wilderness every day, until it was second nature to find me. Spike says that the reason he visited me every day was that he couldn't imagine not seeing me all the time. The reason he made me speak; he couldn't imagine life without my stories. The reason he kissed me; that he couldn't imagine another second of his life where he couldn't just kiss me when he wanted to.

That same day that we kissed, the aunts all managed to convene in my living room, at the call of my mother, and waited, in a kind of deathly hush, for Spike and I to walk into the room.

There was an uproar like you've never heard. Harmony was babbling, fussing over my hair and cooing over Spike, Cordelia swooped down and hugged me like I was the last girl on earth. Faith grinned her approval at me and greeted Spike with a mock punch and a handshake. Anya hugged us both, and made a quick remark about his income before I batted her away. Kendra smiled warmly at both of us, and dragged Harmony away from Spike, and Tara, whom I'd been looking forward to seeing the most, embraced me tightly, and whispered something to me I will never forget.

'True love stories never have endings.'

* * *

A/N: Okay, so after well over a year, I'm finally finished! It's neither as long nor as perfectly perfect as I would have hoped, but I really hope you enjoyed it, and I, personally, am so glad to be able to put this one to bed.

So please review, and as I seem to be in a place for it right now, keep a lookout for any more updates!


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